


The Ghosts of Georgia

by mizdiz



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Daryl's Afraid of Ghosts, F/M, Ghost Stories, Light Angst, Marijuana, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mostly Fluff, Prison (Walking Dead), Supply Runs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 18:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16373150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizdiz/pseuds/mizdiz
Summary: An injury lands our heroes in a creepy, old house full of floral print and creaky stairs. Daryl is secretly afraid of ghosts. Carol secretly knows how to roll a perfect joint. It's October, fam—let's tell some ghost stories.





	The Ghosts of Georgia

**Author's Note:**

> happy spooky season! here's a little oneshot i threw together to celebrate. cw for drugs. 
> 
> waynedunlaptheorgandonor.tumblr.com
> 
> deuces,  
> -diz

“The upstairs is all clear,” said Carol, hobbling down the old staircase she'd insisted on going up, the wood creaking under her boots. “This place will have to do for the night.”

 

Daryl's stomach went sour, but his face didn't betray him as he gave her a tight nod. The wound on the side of her face was still peppered in beads of fresh blood, and although he could tell she was trying to hide it, he saw the way she was avoiding putting any weight on her left leg where she'd twisted her knee. He wasn't about to drag her to some other house on the block and make her clear it with him, all because of something absolutely foolish.

 

From the ages of seven to ten, starting after his mother had died, Daryl used to spend summers at his aunt and uncle's farmhouse, situated about an hour northwest of Savannah. 

 

Daryl hated his father, hated the beatings, but he hated his aunt and uncle's house even more. He never slept when he was there; he couldn't. The whole farm was haunted, he was sure of it, and that house was ground zero.

 

The moment he and Carol had escaped the herd, and he'd helped her limp through the door of the little two-story smack dab in the middle of some cul-de-sac, Daryl had wanted to turn right back around. It was like he'd been there before, and it wasn't a pleasant bout of nostalgia. He felt as though he'd just walked back into that summer farmhouse, and was surrounded by the ghosts that still hovered in the air.

 

The place was dark and dusty. They'd found a few candles and the flames only served to create an ambiance that reminded Daryl of the old black and white gothic films that would play on his shitty, staticy TV at night—the ones that would give him nightmares.

 

“How's the knee?” Daryl asked, partially out of concern, and partially as a means of distracting himself.

 

“Fine,” Carol said predictably. Daryl was doubtful.

 

“Sit,” he said, nodding towards the floral print couch next to the floral print armchair in the living room covered in floral wallpaper. 

 

She scowled at him, but went over to the couch, covering up her limp as much as possible. Daryl knelt in front of her and pushed up her baggy pant leg.

 

“Yeah, that's real fine,” he said, annoyed, because she was obviously downplaying her injury a  _ lot _ . Her leg was a collage of different shades of bruises, but he didn't so much mind that, as they all were banged up pretty much all of the time, but her knee was clearly swollen, and was practically black.

 

“I wouldn't be able to walk on it if it were broken,” Carol reasoned. “It's just sprained. Once we get back to the prison I'll try and stay off it for a day or two, but there's nothing we can do about it now.”

 

“You're not moving it anymore tonight,” he said. “Here, lay down.” He nudged her shoulder until she huffed and laid down on her back. Daryl took some throw pillows and tucked them under her bad knee. “Keep that elevated. I'm gonna go see if they left any aspirin around here or somethin’.”

 

“The master bathroom is upstairs. There's probably a medicine cabinet in there,” Carol said. She looked torn between being displeased at being fussed over, and relieved to be off her leg. 

 

Oh good, thought Daryl, just what he wanted—to go wandering around upstairs in a house that he refused to say was haunted, because Carol would mock him for life, but that was totally haunted.

 

“'Kay,” he said, swallowing his nerves. This was extremely stupid. Since this all began, he had met the following scenarios with a completely steady hand:

 

  * Walkers, in many different forms and situations
  * Several deadly weapons being pointed at him
  * Almost getting blown to pieces at the CDC
  * Falling off a horse, down a cliff, and impaling himself with an arrow
  * Getting shot in the head
  * Being stuck with Glenn in a car for a full hour directly after they all got mild food poisoning from some rotten meat



 

But the thing was, although the list of stuff that scared him was short, it was still there:

 

  * The people he loved and cared for getting hurt or killed
  * Ghosts



 

Daryl hated to admit it, but the little kid inside him who spent hot summer nights sweating under piles of blankets to hide, was still in his head, and in his head that little kid was screaming that this house was haunted as hell and that he should  _ leave _ .

 

“You alright?” asked Carol, and Daryl realized he hadn't actually moved towards the staircase, but had, in fact, just been staring at it warily.

 

“This place seem off to you?” he asked. Carol shrugged.

 

“No more than anywhere else,” she said. “Why? You think someone might find us here?”

 

“Nah, not that, just... it's nothin’.” He waved a dismissive hand.

 

“Should we go somewhere else?” Carol was already pushing herself up, ready to bolt on Daryl's say so. He nudged her back down.

 

“It's nothin’,” he said again. He picked up a candle, deciding to save the battery juice in his flashlight. “Imma go check upstairs.”

 

Before he lost his nerve, he went up the stairs, taking two at a time, and then froze at the top. The top step gave way to a long, dark hallway, shadows from his own body dancing along the corridor from the candlelight. Paint was peeling off the walls, and the floorboards groaned under his weight. He was in a goddamn horror movie.

 

He'd always been more of a believer than most, though no one would ever guess it. He kept a stoic, no-nonsense disposition that didn't lend itself to coming off as someone who believed in the paranormal, but he did. He'd swear to his dying day that he saw a chupacabra, and he always took in stories about the Jersey Devil and Bigfoot as fact. To him, the idea of the dead rising was just more proof that the supernatural was real. Jenner couldn't come up with a scientific explanation for it—maybe it was because there wasn't one.

 

This was all to say that Daryl knew, like he knew Polaris always pointed north, that his aunt and uncle's house was haunted, and he was just as certain that this house was too. He also knew that he was unhappy about it.

 

He sought out the master bedroom, all the while feeling like there was something following him, but every time he looked over his shoulder there was nothing but darkness. He tore through the medicine cabinet, where he found shaving cream, denture glue, and half a bottle of Viagra. (He briefly forgot about the ghosts as he pocketed the bottle to slip into Glenn's pillowcase the next time he pissed Daryl off.) But no aspirin, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, nothing. 

 

He wasn't about to stick around up there. He didn't want Carol in pain, but he also didn't want to be alone in the dark. He closed the medicine cabinet door and averted his eyes. He knew better than to look in the mirror. He'd seen the movies. There was a 110% chance that a ghost would be standing directly behind him if he did. He headed back downstairs, and only just managed to stop himself from running, and if he went at a bit of a power walk? Well, that was nobody's business but his own.

 

“Didn't find any,” he said apologetically, feeling a little lighter once his feet hit the living room floor.

 

“That's okay, I found something better,” Carol said from the couch. Brow furrowed, Daryl walked up to the couch and peered over to where Carol had a coffee table drawer opened beside her. He gave a loud snort.

 

“This place looks like it belonged to a couple of old fucks,” he mused. “Why the hell did they have pot hidden in their coffee table?”

 

Carol was pulling items one-by-one out of the drawer. A grinder. Some rolling paper. A lighter. A little clear baggie with a good amount of marijuana buds. 

 

“I imagine retirement gets dull pretty quick. Maybe they needed to get stoned to stomach watching  _ The Price is Right _ every morning.”  She looked up at Daryl with a pretty little smile. “Want some?” she asked.

 

“Pfft,” Daryl huffed. “I ain't rolled a joint in years. Never was any good at it neither; always fell apart.”

 

“Mm, lucky for you…” Carol said, sentence trailing off in exchange for a demonstration. Daryl watched skeptically as Carol—his formerly meek, mousey Carol—ground the weed, put it in the paper, and expertly rolled the perfect joint. She held it up with a smirk.

 

“Where the fuck did'ja learn to do that?” Daryl asked, taking the joint and looking it over, as though he were inspecting it. It was flawless.

 

“Let's just say I didn't get through my marriage by strength of will alone,” she said. “The next door neighbors had a burnout son who lived in their basement who traded me pot for baked goods, no pun intended. I kept it hidden in a box of tampons and would smoke it when Ed was at work and Sophia was at school.”

 

“No fuckin’ shit,” Daryl muttered, mildly impressed. He handed the joint over. “Pro’ly not a great idea for us both to get blazed. That'll make you feel better, though, so you go ahead.”

 

“I won't if you think it's a bad idea. But I'm definitely taking this back to the prison.”

 

“Nah, I mean it, I don't mind. I know that knee's hurtin’ you more than you're lettin’ on.” He grinned a little. “'Sides, might be fun to see you fucked up.”

 

“You’ll be disappointed, I'm really good at faking being sober,” Carol said, reaching over for the lighter. “Though it  _ has _ been a minute. I'll only take a hit or two; take it light.”

 

Carol put the joint to her mouth, lit the end, and sucked in until the cherry turned red. She held the smoke in her lungs for a few seconds, before letting it all out in a cloud of smoke that smelled like every basement of every friend Daryl had ever had. She hardly coughed.

 

“Never would have pegged you as a stoner,” Daryl said.

 

“I'm not a stoner. It's medicinal.”

 

“After you just pulled a big-ass toke like a pro? Yeah, you keep tellin’ yourself that.” 

 

“Whatever,” she said, taking another drag. “Sure you don't want a hit?” she asked through a mouthful of smoke. “We're pretty secure in here.”

 

Daryl considered the offer. A light buzz might calm his nerves a little. He chewed on his bottom lip and then held his hand out. Carol grinned as she passed him the joint.

 

He'd forgotten how much it burned on the inhale. He coughed harder than she had, which felt strangely emasculating. He immediately wanted a drink of water. He handed the joint back, and took a swig from his canteen. Carol made a grabbing motion, and he let her take a few swallows as well.

 

“That's enough for now,” Carol said after a third hit. If this was Carol taking it lightly, he wondered how much she used to smoke in her housewife days. She put the joint out directly on the coffee table, and settled back against the arm of the couch, her knee still swollen and propped up.

 

“You used to do this every day?” Daryl asked.

 

“Mm, more days than not,” she said, draping an arm over her eyes. “Less during the summer when school was out, but if Ed was acting particularly bad, I'd sneak a little here and there. As long as he was a few beers in he never noticed.”

 

Daryl's relationship with drugs was complicated. He smoked cigarettes like a chimney back when he could get his hands on them regularly, and he'd smoke a bowl or drop acid if it was offered to him, but that was the extent of it. He would get drunk more than the average Joe, but that was usually at Merle's insistence. Whenever Merle was locked up, Daryl remained moderately clean.

 

His older brother, on the other hand, did anything he could get his hands on. He'd swallowed, snorted, and shot up a drug under every letter of the alphabet, with speed being his favorite. Daryl, on principle, never touched the stuff. Meth tore down his brother the same way it tore down his father, and he had no intention of following that same road. Watching Merle spiral was hell.

 

Watching Carol smoke her weight in weed, however? That was turning out to be delightful.

 

“God I missed being high,” she said wistfully. Daryl wondered what his friends back at the prison would find more unexpected if they were with them: Daryl shitting his pants over ghosts, or Carol smoking herself up like it was as routine as making supper.

 

Daryl opened his mouth to reply, but then his world tilted a little. He blinked a few times through the sudden tunnel vision. Damn, it'd been a  _ long _ time since he last did this.

 

“Strong shit,” he said, his tongue heavy.

 

“ _ Good _ shit,” Carol corrected. She moved her arm away and gave him a lazy smile. She looked more relaxed than he'd ever seen her. “Come now, sit a spell,” she said, gesturing at the other end of the couch where her legs were. Daryl stared at them a moment, at a loss.

 

“Your legs are already there,” he said dumbly. He was mildly annoyed as his high took over. He'd smoked enough to be stupid, but smoked little enough to be  _ aware _ that he was being stupid.

 

“I'll put them on your lap.”

 

“'Kay,” he mumbled. A vague voice in the back of his head wanted to protest—a faint and distant yelling of, 'her leg is injured!’ and 'you don't like physical contact!’—but trying to listen to that voice was way more complicated than simply sitting down on the couch. So that's what he did. He lifted her legs, plopped himself down, let them rest across his lap, and propped his own legs up on the coffee table. The weed may have had something to do with it, but it was remarkably comfortable.

 

“Why don't you like this house?” Carol asked. 

 

“Hm?” he asked, playing idly with the laces on her boots.

 

“You've been weird since we got here. Why don't you like this house?”

 

“Ghosts,” Daryl said simply, laying his head against the back of the couch.

 

“Ghosts?” asked Carol. “What about them?”

 

“House is full of 'em,” Daryl muttered, hearing the words come from his mouth without fully realizing he was the one saying them. 

 

“I didn't know you believed in ghosts.”

 

“That's ‘cause I don't go around tellin’ people 'cause it's fuckin’ dumb.”

 

“No it's not.”

 

“Do  _ you  _ believe in ghosts?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, there ya go.”

 

Everything was about two steps too far away. Carol's voice was slow and distant, and he was only kind of convinced that they were actually having this conversation. How was Carol sounding so grounded, he wondered, if he was this fucked up off of a single hit.

 

“You don't seem high at all,” he said.

 

“I definitely am,” she assured him. “I told you, I'm a good liar.’

 

“Remind me never to play poker with you.”

 

Carol giggled at that, and the sound was so unfamiliar that Daryl glanced over at her. Her eyelids were droopy, and her whole body was floppy, and Daryl decided they were definitely taking and hiding the rest of this weed in the prison, if it made Carol giggle like she was actually happy for once.

 

“I had a friend in junior high who swore up and down that her house was haunted,” Carol said, swaying her feet back and forth lazily on Daryl's lap. “Her family had money, and they owned this big, beautiful, old Victorian house in the smarmy part of town. 

 

“Story goes that back in the 20s, the place was owned by an heiress and her husband. Now, the husband was supposed to be this successful businessman, but it wasn't until after they were married did the woman find out that he was using his name status to cover up all his debts, and was just using her for her money.

 

“Heartbroken and infuriated, the wife concocts a plan. One night, she makes love to him like she never had before; shows him the time of his life. Then, once he was passed out in post-coital bliss, she slit his throat with a kitchen knife and lets him bleed to death in the bed.

 

“After he's good and dead, the wife takes the knife and cuts her own throat, but not deep enough to cut any major arteries, just enough to make it look like she put up a struggle. Then she goes into her butler's room, sneaks in while he's sleeping, and hides the knife under his bed, letting her blood drip on his floor.

 

“She runs outside and starts screaming on the top of her lungs, ‘my husband's been murdered!’ over and over until the police show. She blames it all on the butler, they find the murder weapon under his bed, no alibi, and just his word against a rich woman's—he's pretty much immediately hanged for a crime he didn't commit. The woman lives into her late 70s, and on her deathbed, years of guilt finally catch up to her, and on her dying breaths, she finally admits her sins, begging for forgiveness for her immortal soul.”

 

“I'm guessin’ she wasn't forgiven?” asked Daryl, barely registering the goosebumps on his arms.

 

“Legend has it that God condemned her to her own personal hell, where she would spend her eternal life trapped in the house where she killed her husband and framed her butler, growing more and more cruel, and haunting every new occupant with her hatred.

 

“Now I never believed a word of it, of course, but my friend insisted. She said small knickknacks would go missing or get moved around, that she'd hear footsteps in the halls when no one else was around. She said that on more than one occasion she heard a woman crying. And to top it all off, she swore on her life that this one time she got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night and saw the heiress in the mirror, staring right at her with her bloody neck.”

 

“Ugh,” Daryl grunted, shuddering. “Don't like that.”

 

“I stayed over at that house all the time, and I never saw or heard a thing. Besides, this was the same friend who told everyone in tenth grade that she got to third base with Jimmy Richards behind the bleachers after the football game, even though at least  _ five  _ people said they saw him at Rosemarie's Diner that night, so honestly she was probably just in it for the attention.”

 

Daryl laughed a little. He'd never heard Carol talk so freely about her life Before. He tried to picture her as a teenager, gossiping with her girlfriends about who may or may not have felt up whom on the football field. Did she ever kiss boys behind the bleachers? Or drive to the lake and get handsy with a date? Daryl was a little disappointed that he was high—he wanted to experience her nostalgia with a clear head.

 

“What about you?” Carol asked, tapping her toe against his stomach. 

 

“What about me?”

 

“Why do you believe in ghosts? You seen one before?”

 

Daryl considered how to respond. She wouldn't laugh at him if he told the truth, at least not maliciously. Carol would never do that. He shrugged.

 

“Yeah,” he said. “When I was a kid.”

 

“Oh I definitely want to hear this. Just give me one second.” She reached over for the joint, lit it, and took another pull. She offered it to him, but he shook his head. “Go on then,” she said through a couple small coughs, putting the blunt back out and tossing the lighter onto the table.

 

“You'll think it's stupid,” Daryl said.

 

“No I won't,” Carol insisted. She pouted her lower lip. “Come on, I wanna know.”

 

“I ain't as good a storyteller as you.”

 

“You don't gotta be, just tell me what you saw.”

 

Daryl sighed.

 

“My aunt and uncle used to own this farm down in southeast Georgia. I'd spend summers there sometimes. Shithole of a place, and they was shitty to live with, too, they had all these dumb rules about keepin’ your elbows off the table, and no shoes in the house.”

 

“So, like, normal, everyday etiquette?” Carol asked with a smirk. Daryl flicked her shin.

 

“Shut it,” he said, mouth quirking up for just a moment. “Anyways, the whole place was creepy as hell. There wasn't nobody for miles, and all the barns looked like they was about to fall apart. A few times I woke up to pigs squealin’ while my uncle and cousin rounded the big'ns up for slaughter. Hated that damn place.”

 

He paused, frowning. He nodded at the joint on the table. Carol got the hint and passed it to him. He took another small hit, his throat burning and tongue like cotton, but his feelings subdued.

 

“I slept in this guest room in the far end of the house, away from everybody,” he continued, passing the joint back and readjusting Carol's legs on his lap. “I slept like shit when I stayed there. You know me, I ain't afraid of the dark, but I'd keep my lights on as long as I could before my aunt would come yellin’ about me wastin’ electricity, and then I'd just lie there in bed starin’ at the dark room like a pussy, too scared to close my eyes.

 

“This one time, though, when I'd actually managed to fall asleep, I got woke up by a book on my bedside table fallin’ and smackin’ hard on the ground. I was tryna get my wits about me and figure out how it fell, when I looked at the foot of my bed and saw this kid just standin’ there. She was about my age, maybe a little bit younger, and I could see right through her, like she was made of smoke or fog. And the part I remember most was her mouth movin’, like she was tryin’ real hard to tell me somethin’, but I couldn't hear it. 

 

“I don't know how long I just stared at her. Usually, when it comes to fight or flight, I'm straight fight, no question, but right then I just fuckin’ froze. By the time I stopped pissin’ myself and decided I should try and do somethin’, she just up and vanished. Just gone, like she'd never been there at all.”

 

“Did you ever see her again?”

 

“Nah,” Daryl said, shaking his head. “And after that, I made my cousin let me sleep on his bedroom floor, 'cause there was no way I was sleepin’ alone in that room no more. That was durin’ my last summer I spent there. Didn't see that ghost girl again, and never went back to the farm again, but ever since I've always been a pussy when it comes to spirits and shit. And this house just reminds me of my aunt and uncle's house. That's why I don't like it. Just dumb memories is all.”

 

“Don’t do that, you always do that,” Carol said with a frown. “Say your feelings are stupid or dumb. Just ‘cause I don’t believe in ghosts doesn’t mean what you believe is  _ stupid _ . Your experiences are yours, and it’s not up to me to say what really happened.”

 

“It’s weird, you know, I ain’t never been much of a church goer. I mean, I went when I had to, this is fuckin’ Georgia after all, but I never had strong feelin’s either way about it. But ghosts? Spirits, voodoo shit, all’a that? Ain’t never questioned it; just felt true.”

  
“What about walkers? You think they’re some kind of ghost, too? After all, they’re something alive that should be dead.”

 

Daryl considered this, mind hazy. Eventually he shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “They ain’t ghosts, they’re just bodies. Like what you said, back at the farm? After...Well, what you said in the RV after what happened at the barn?”

 

“That she hadn’t been my little girl for a long time,” Carol remembered, speaking softly with a sad smile. 

 

“Yeah,” Daryl said, apologetically, but Carol didn’t seem upset. He shrugged. “Walkers ain’t people no more.”

 

“Are ghosts?”

 

“I dunno,” Daryl said honestly. “I think they kinda are.”

 

“Sounds a lot like you believe in souls.”

 

“Maybe,” Daryl muttered.

 

“Then why be afraid?” Carol asked.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Why do ghosts have to be scary? To me, the idea of a ghost is just sad.”

 

“Why sad?”

 

“Mm,” Carol hummed thoughtfully, taking Daryl’s hand and playing with his fingers. “If walkers aren’t people, if what makes them  _ them  _ isn’t there anymore, then we don’t need to feel bad about letting them wander the world forever in some meaningless existence. But if a ghost is a person, or a soul, or whatever you want to call it, and they’re trapped, living hidden, caged, and alone, then that’s the worst fate I could think to give somebody.”

 

Daryl considered this; considered the transparent little girl at the foot of his bed, desperately mouthing words to him that he couldn’t hear. What if they’d been cries for help? Maybe she hadn’t wanted to be there anymore than Daryl wanted her there. 

 

“When I die, if I become a ghost, I’m gonna haunt the shit out of you,” Carol said, lacing her fingers through his and running a thumb along his palm. “And you better see me, Daryl Dixon, I’m not gonna be one of those sad ghosts.”

 

“Nah, you ain’t dyin’ before me,” Daryl said, glancing down at their entangled hands with vague interest. If he were sober, he would probably have more thoughts on the matter, but as it was, the feel of smooth against calloused was really very nice, and he was content to just let it be what it was. 

 

“Well, you’re certainly not dying before  _ me _ ,” Carol said, like a command, like it was something he could control. The certainty in her voice almost made him believe he could.

 

“We’ll have to die together then. Haunt Rick.” He thought about it and smiled to himself. “ _ Definitely _ haunt Glenn.”

 

“Mm,” Carol said sleepily, burrowing herself a little deeper in the dip of the couch. “Being a ghost wouldn’t be so bad if it was with you. We can be ghosts together.” 

 

Daryl smiled a little, eyes cast down shyly. 

 

“You’re tired,” he said softly. “Get some sleep. Rest your leg.”

 

“What about the ghosts?” Carol asked, eyes already closing.

 

“Dunno,” Daryl said, with a squeeze to her hand. “Some reason I ain’t that afraid of them no more.”

 

—-

 

Daryl woke the next morning with a crick in his neck and a sweaty palm, as his hand was still gripping Carol’s like an anchor. Her legs were still draped over his lap, the rest of their joint right where they left it on the coffee table. Hastily, he untangled himself from her as carefully as he could. He grimaced as he stretched out his stiff body.

 

“Mornin’,” Carol mumbled. She turned her head to blink up at him, hair on one side of her head smooshed down from being pressed up against the cushion on the back of the couch. Daryl smiled a little sheepishly at her.

 

“Mornin’,” he said, voice gravelly with sleep. “How’s the knee?”

 

Carol rubbed at her eyes and pushed herself up. She wriggled her hurt leg around a little and tried to hide how her face contorted in pain. “Sore,” she said. “But it’ll have to do. We can’t stay shacked up in here until it heals, we don’t have the supplies.”

 

Daryl nodded despite himself.

 

“I know. If the walkers have moved past I bet we could get our car back. I can go scout it out and then drive it back here to get you.”

 

“No, I’m not letting you go alone,” Carol said. She pulled herself to her feet and Daryl reached out and took hold of her elbow as she steadied herself. “I’m good,” she said stubbornly. She took a few steps to prove it. They were solid steps, and they would have fooled almost anyone, but Daryl wasn’t just anyone.

 

“Hurts like hell, don’t it?”

 

“It’ll either hurt like hell here, or it’ll hurt out hell out there, but at least I’ll know you’re safe if I’m with you.”

 

“When have you ever had to worry about that?”

 

“Always, Daryl,” she said with such sincerity that he blushed. “I’m always worried about you. And you’re not allowed to die before me, or don’t you remember?”

 

“I remember,” Daryl said quietly. She smiled warmly and hobbled her way over to him. She put a hand on his shoulder and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. He turned redder still, but didn’t move away.

 

“Together, right?” she whispered. “Today, tomorrow, after we die—I’m considering last night a promise.”

 

“Alright,” Daryl agreed, looking down at her. “But you best be able to run on that leg. I ain’t plannin’ on neither of us dyin’ today.”

 

“We won’t. If you’re right, this house doesn’t need any more spirits. Guess we’ll just have to live.”

 

“Yep,” Daryl said resolutely. He glanced over at the staircase that led to the dark hallway upstairs. But he wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t sure what he was. Maybe what he was feeling was sympathy. He dropped a chaste kiss on the top of Carol’s head and briefly buried his face in her hair. He muttered, “We ain’t ghosts yet.” 


End file.
